


with friends like these (who needs private detectives?)

by pools_of_venetianblue



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Curry Night, F/M, Relationship Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23447107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pools_of_venetianblue/pseuds/pools_of_venetianblue
Summary: It's curry night at the Herberts', and Cormoran and Robin have decided it's time to tell their friends about the new development in their relationship.
Relationships: Ilsa Herbert/Nick Herbert, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 40
Kudos: 138
Collections: The Cormoran Strike Fest of Firsts





	with friends like these (who needs private detectives?)

**Author's Note:**

> For the CS First Fest "Friends" prompt. This is a bit of silliness that quite entertained me as a wrote it; I hope it entertains you as well!

Strike leaned back against the couch cushions, suppressing a belch. The curry had been particularly tasty tonight – though he’d often found food tasted better when eaten in good company, and this meal certainly counted as being eaten in good company. Nick was sopping up the last of his madras with a piece of naan; Ilsa and Robin had pushed their plates to the side some time ago and were chatting quietly away with their heads together. Strike’s eyes lingered on Robin, who seemed to be almost glowing in the warm light, her smile easy and her eyes bright and sparkling. She looked…happy. It was as though she was brimming over with it, joy written in every tilt of her head and gesture of her hands, in her bright laugh and the way she tucked her hair behind her ears and smiled at him every time he caught her eye.

_Is it me, making her look like that?_ Strike wondered. The thought felt arrogant, but he himself could barely keep the soppy grin from his face every time he saw Robin, or thought about Robin, or happened to have a sudden memory of one of the many particularly pleasant evenings (and mornings) he had lately spent with Robin. 

He felt a sudden urge to slide closer to her on the couch, drape his arm around her shoulders and pull her to him, to feel the warmth and softness of her body against his. This thing between them was still so new, and he had spent most of the past two weeks delighting in the fact that he was now allowed to do the things he’d so often imagined himself doing – not only allowed, she enjoyed him doing them, wanted to do things of her own –

He cut off his own thoughts before they could continue romping down that particular path. 

At some point during his reverie Ilsa had disappeared into the kitchen without his noticing. He could hear the banging of cupboards, and then she was back, arms weighed down with a large bottle of champagne – Strike noticed with some puzzlement that it was her overpriced ‘special occasion’ brand – and four skinny champagne flutes. 

Ilsa noticed his raised eyebrows as she settled back down on the couch, and there was something slyly satisfied in her answering grin.

“I thought we might want to celebrate,” she said, and then in response to Strike’s blank look, prompted, “because you mentioned you had something to tell us?”

“Right. Yeah.” He and Robin had agreed to tell their friends about their relationship tonight, but he’d thought to drop it casually into conversation, perhaps over coffees and dessert. Ilsa’s expectant attention, and the suddenly quiet room, were throwing him off.

“Well,” he said, rallying, “we just wanted to let you know...” Robin’s cheeks were pink, and she was smiling into her lap. Impulsively, he reached over to squeeze her hand. “Robin and I are seeing each other.” 

There was a moment of silence.

“Romantically,” he clarified, after the moment had stretched a bit too long, in case they had somehow missed his point.

“Yes,” Ilsa said slowly, exchanging a confused glance with Nick, “we know.”

“What do you mean, you know?” he said, nonplussed.

“Well,” Ilsa laughed a little, disbelieving. “You’ve been together for months, haven’t you?” 

“ _What?_ ” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be a secret, was it?” Nick said with a wide grin on his face, looking between Strike and Robin as though encouraging them to join in the joke.

“Secret? There was nothing to keep secret,” Strike spluttered. Robin opened her mouth, then closed it again, clearly at a loss for words.

“But, at our Christmas party, I walked into the pantry and you were…”

“We were what?” Cormoran’s eyebrows had snapped together, and Nick faltered under his dark glare.

“Well, I mean,” Nick made a vaguely obscene motion with his hands. “You jumped apart as soon as I came in, you were both bright red, I assumed…”

“That’s not what - I had gone in to find some more crisps, and Robin had come to tell me that-” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Robin interrupted, her cheeks flushing at the memory of that charged moment, the almost-something that had been interrupted by Nick swinging open the pantry door, one of many such moments that she had mentally catalogued and scrutinized a thousand times over long evenings alone in her bedroom. 

“We weren’t - nothing happened, not then. It’s only been two weeks since-” Robin cut herself off, blushing furiously. Strike had a good idea as to why, since he had his own vivid memories of the night to which she was referring.

Nick was trying and failing to suppress a smirk. Ilsa, clearly skeptical, wasn’t even trying to hide hers. 

“Let me get this straight,” Strike said, leaning forward on his elbows, his heavy brow furrowed. “You two have been assuming that we were a couple for the past _seven months_?”

Nick shrugged. “A bit longer than that, actually.”

“Excuse me _?”_

“Well, we’d been doing so many _couples_ things. Dinners, drinks-”

“Yes, because we’re all friends! It didn’t mean that we,” he gestured between himself and Robin, “were a couple!”

“Right, but you always arrive together, and leave together-” 

“Because it’s convenient!”

“-and you always bring a bottle of wine from both of you,” Ilsa finished.

“Erm, no,” Robin said, after a brief hesitation, looking very carefully away from Strike. “I bring a bottle of wine, actually. From me.”

“I have never once in my life,” Cormoran said deliberately, jabbing one thick finger on the coffee table for emphasis, “remembered to bring wine to a dinner party.”

“That’s…a fair point?” Ilsa looked slightly bewildered.

“Is it though?” Nick muttered into his glass.

“Wait,” Strike said. He straightened up, narrowing his eyes at Ilsa, “is this why you asked me when our anniversary was?”

“Yes, and you said it was in March!” Ilsa cried, leaning forward to point accusingly at him. 

“You said what?” Robin blinked at him, startled.

“Well, I…” Strike faltered a little under the combined stares of both Ilsa and Robin. Nick, his shoulders shaking and his face hidden in one hand, was not helping. 

“That’s when Robin first came to work with me,” he finished weakly.

“Oggy, you went together to my sister’s wedding.” Nick was laughing out right now. 

“As friends,” Robin said looking up from where she'd had her face buried in her hands. “It wasn’t a date.”

“The invitation was addressed to both of you!”

“I thought they were just being efficient,” Strike mumbled. “You know, saving paper.”

“You gave them a joint present!”

“Because we were on the _same_ _invitation_!”

“Listen,” Ilsa cut in firmly, clearly feeling that they needed to be steered back on track. “All that aside, this is wonderful news. We’re really happy for you.” 

Cormoran had been bracing himself for Ilsa’s delight and curiosity, for Nick’s gentle ribbing, but this whole conversation had somehow become even more awkward – and frankly absurd - than he’d anticipated, leaving him feeling disgruntled, wrongfooted, and oddly deflated. 

Ilsa was shaking her head, smiling ruefully. “When you said you had something to tell us, we thought you meant you were engaged!”

Nick snickered at the expression on Cormoran’s face.

“Ah,” Robin said. She glanced sideways at Cormoran, who was now staring intently at the ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest. “Which explains the champagne.”

“Well,” Nick said cheerfully, taking the bottle from Ilsa and beginning to work on the cork. “No reason we can’t still crack it open, is there?”

“I don’t like champagne,” Cormoran said sourly. 

“More for us then,” Ilsa said, toasting her old friend as Nick filled a glass and handed it to Robin, who accepted it with fairly good grace, considering. 

“To Cormoran and Robin…starting dating,” Nick said, lifting his own glass. He paused, then added, “two weeks ago.”


End file.
